


Nothing left to lose

by Petra



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Bruises, M/M, Masochism, kink bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-15
Updated: 2010-07-15
Packaged: 2017-10-10 13:56:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/100518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petra/pseuds/Petra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Sam admits it, Gene's going to use this for all it's worth, which will be both excellent in the short term and possibly stellar in the long term, with an option on phenomenal, if he doesn't decide that the last thing he needs is a masochistic DI running around the city waiting to get hurt. As if getting hurt by just anyone is anything like as good as having Gene do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing left to lose

**Author's Note:**

> Bruises/biting for Kink Bingo. Consensual painplay. Thanks to [](http://d-generate-girl.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**d_generate_girl**](http://d-generate-girl.dreamwidth.org/) for prereading.

  
Sam wouldn't say he's a creature of habit, or if he is, most of his habits are new, including the one where he's shagging Gene regularly. That's a good habit to acquire, sort of, except for the parts where Gene still doesn't want to kiss him, to do it with the lights on, or to touch him in any way that involves his cock.

Fortunately, Gene doesn't raise a fuss about Sam tossing off while they're fucking, or while Sam's sucking him, so he's not feeling anywhere near as unfulfilled as he might otherwise be. Not as unfulfilled as he was before they started, anyway, because 1973 is not a fruitful prowling ground when you have to be a copper and keep your nose clean, and when you know better than to fuck your subordinates however pretty they are.

And then there's the fight--not the first, not the tenth--or possibly it's a punch-up. Sam's not sure exactly where the distinction falls with Gene, not once the fists are flying, and he's going to have bruises by evening on his shoulder from where he slammed into the wall, and on his hip where he hit the filing cabinet, besides the normal mild contusions on his stomach. He's getting better at predicting where they'll come up, and maybe that should worry him, but it doesn't worry him as much as it should.

He can use them, after all, and that's one of the benefits of fucking in the dark on a bed that'll break any minute now and kill them both in a wreckage of springs. Gene isn't watching him carefully, thinks he's doing whatever the hell he normally assumes Sam's doing, one hand bracing himself and one on his cock, jerking himself frantically to beat Gene to orgasm before it's all over and it's too late.

Except tonight, he has the bruises coming on his hip, and he can get his fingers into them, where the ache is beginning, and that's as good as touching himself. Amplifies it all, like the godawful wallpaper amplifies Gene's grunts in his ear, and makes him shake even before he's ready to touch his cock. It hurts, fuck, it hurts so perfectly, and he's going to shout this time--and Gene doesn't damn well deserve that. Hasn't done anything to earn it except be there, spread him open like Sam's been aching for all day, and push in, fast and hot--

So Gene's done something, all right, but it's still not good enough to earn a shout, not as good as the throbbing pain in Sam's hip when he twists his fingers--but he can't stop himself.

Gene laughs, hoarse and filthy. "Jesus, you randy sod. Already?"

"No," Sam says, and Gene hesitates, fucks the rhythm entirely, and catches at his wrist.

"What're you playing at?" he asks, and when Sam doesn't answer, Gene wraps one hot, callused hand around his cock--and he's not drunk, Sam would smell that, not half drunk enough to touch Sam like that. "This is the bit you want, Dorothy. Right--" a quick, practiced pull "--right here."

"I can find it," Sam says, though he doesn't want to give Gene an excuse to stop.

Gene snorts. "Could've fooled me. If you can find your todger, but you didn't, what the fuck were you shouting at?"

"You," Sam lies.

"Try again." Gene pushes into him, insistent and perfect, but not so perfect that he cries out. "I may be an excellent lover, but you didn't do that before."

Sam grits his teeth and pushes into Gene's hand, back onto him as hard as he can, trying to distract him. "Just fuck me."

"Nothing doing, Tyler." Gene grabs him by the hips and holds him tight, right--right on the bruise.

Sam groans, loud as anything, and lets his head fall forward. "Oh Christ."

Gene pauses a moment, thinking so loudly Sam can nearly smell something burning. "It's not being held still. We did that a week Tuesday and you didn't give a damn for it. What the hell are you playing at?"

If Sam admits it, Gene's going to use this for all it's worth, which will be both excellent in the short term and possibly stellar in the long term, with an option on phenomenal, if he doesn't decide that the last thing he needs is a masochistic DI running around the city waiting to get hurt. As if getting hurt by just anyone is anything like as good as having Gene do it. "Bruises," Sam says. "On my hip, right under your--"

Gene digs his fingers in and pulls Sam back, filling him and making the pain spike all in one. Sam can't breathe enough to do more than gasp, raggedly. "Right there, are they?"

"Yes," Sam says, and he does not, he does not say "please," not to Gene, not asking to be hurt even though it's what he damn well wants. He'd rather pretend it was nothing, convince Gene to grab his cock again--that was going well enough to be going on with--and--

"And you were fiddling with them." Gene gets his thumb on a particularly sore spot and pushes in.

This time he gets the shout he's looking for, and Sam can't do anything, can't even work out how to cover his mouth so the neighbors don't think Gene's killing him. "Fuck," he says. "That hurts so damn much--"

"As much as when you did it to yourself, you pervert?" Gene gets his fingers lined up, tracing out the edges and making Sam groan. "As much as when you decided you'd rather have this than your hand on your willie?"

"More," Sam says, both answering the question and--he hates himself, he hates Gene, he loves this more than he'll ever put into words for anyone--begging for it. "You've got--oh, shit, yes--"

Gene lets up for a moment, playing good-cop-bad-cop all by himself, except that today it's the good cop doing the hurting and the bad cop letting go. "I've got what?"

Sam whimpers, high and loud. "Better leverage. Better angle. Bigger--nn--fingers--do it again, fuck."

He doesn't say please that time either, he doesn't know what he says when Gene shoves into him, as hard and heedless as ever, squeezing the bruises there until he's sure they'll be black by morning. "You've got a hand free," Gene says in his ear, and he says it again until Sam makes sense of the words.

"So?" Sam's bracing himself for every thrust, now, half out of his head and trying to anticipate the pain so he can clamp his jaw shut. Asking him to talk on top of everything else is too damn much.

"Nothing saying you can't have this and a hand on your cock, is there?"

There are any number of things Sam never wants to say to Gene, starting with things like "I was four in 1973" and moving on to more basic things like "I might be falling in love with you, you complete bastard."

"Don't need it, if you keep going like that," is also on the list, but it turns out that along with being the baddest bad cop in town, Gene's also the best good cop in town, at least in this particular case, at least with his cock buried in Sam's arse and a grip on the bruises that were getting him halfway to coming all by themselves.

"Just when I think you couldn't be more of a mental, filthy, disgusting, poncey pervert," Gene says, and there is no place on the planet in any year at all where that means "I love you, never change."

No place at all.

Sam can't breathe, and oxygen deprivation does strange things to the mind--asphyxiation is as euphoria-inducing as over-oxygenation--and why he's thinking of this when, really, he should be thinking of how to stop this, how to hurry it, how to get Gene to for fuck's sake let him go and make him stop screaming like an abused woman--he's taken beatings that hurt less, he's sure of it, and he's never had one that felt this good--

"Fuck, you mean it, don't you?" Gene bites his ear hard, laughing at him. "Show me."

He wants to swear at Gene, to tell him that it's all a lie, because he can see the future and he didn't even have to live through this part like this before to know: there will never be a day when he doesn't have bruises purple as the last bit of sunsets, not if Gene has anything to do with it, not if it means he can make Sam come screaming without laying a finger on his queer poof's cock.

It should be harder than this, harder than a quick fuck--he's getting used to this, to being on his knees, and the smell of the oil-based lube makes him ache all by itself now--harder than pain that rockets up and down his legs and clusters at the base of his spine and punches out through his cock.

Harder than Gene saying, "Come on, Sammy-boy. Come for me."

Especially harder than that when Gene's not doing anything, hardly anything at all, but squeezing and fucking him--and Sam sees lights flashing behind his eyes, a hallucination he's used to from a different time entirely, stars and pinwheels and it really is the seventies behind his eyelids then, and he's coming so hard and shouting so loud that he doesn't, in fact, know his name when he's done.

Or how to breathe, once he's a little bit conscious again.

The second problem is Gene's fault, because he's on top of Sam on the horrible bed, still buried in him, pinning him down to the duvet and breathing against his neck.

The only mercy is he's let go of the abused bruises, so if Sam could get air into his lungs, at least he'd be physically capable of controlling his diaphragm now instead of making noises.

"Shit," Sam says, and he reaches back and smacks Gene's cheek. "Get off me."

Gene mumbles something and kisses the back of his neck, then wakes up, or the other way round. "Fucking Christ, we're doing that again," he says, and rolls off Sam, nearly onto the floor.

Every part of Sam's body aches up to and possibly including his hair. His bed is covered in his own come and he still hasn't taken a deep breath. "Damn straight," he says, and when he does get a breath, he winces. "Tomorrow, maybe."

Gene prods him in the shoulder, tracing out a line that Sam can't comprehend until he hits another bruise and Sam hisses. "That'll be coming up nicely by then," Gene says, sounding smug.

Sam pulls the pillow over his head to hide his smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel: [Game theory](http://archiveofourown.org/works/103791)


End file.
